The Day Gaara Died
by Ariel D
Summary: Sandsibs fic. Kankuro hangs in the moment between Gaara's life and death, struck with a pain he can't face. Set during Shippuuden. READ AUTHOR'S NOTE.
1. Kankuro's POV

**The Day Gaara Died**

_Description: SANDSIBS fic. Kankuro hangs in the moment between Gaara's life and death, struck with a pain he can't face. Read author's note. Set during Shippuuden. Angst and hurt/comfort._

_Disclaimer: All characters and the Naruto-verse are copyrighted by Masashi Kishimoto and Weekly Shonen Jump. I am making no profit; this is just for fun._

_A/N: Bromance/brotherly love, not Sandcest._

_**AU**. This is an alternate version of how Gaara's resurrection could have been timed and carried out and how Kankuro would have reacted to it. So while the flow of the story will ultimately align with canon facts, the process will be different. Also, this is my first attempt at writing fanfic in first person POV. A majority of my original fic is in first person, but I've never tried it in this venue. So here goes: first person POV, Kankuro._

_Translations (jic): "nii-san" means older brother; "ototo" means younger brother._

* * *

After the rigor mortis wore off, they would put his body in a barrel and bury it beside Father's in the graveyard set aside for Kazekages. Until then, he would "lay in state" — a display for villagers to walk past prior to the funeral. I knew this, had seen it when Father died, but it didn't make it any easier.

I wanted to vomit.

I sat on the bench furthest from the stage in the Kazekage Complex's assembly room, which was used for everything from Kabuki plays to state funerals. They'd laid Gaara on a pallet, then set the pallet at the stage's edge so people could walk past easily. My stomach roiled, tossing my food in a turbulent sea of acid that knocked against my guts and pleaded to be released. I stared at the concrete bench in front of mine, absently noting the paint was chipping off: tan paint, top layer; grey paint, second layer; white paint, third layer. It looked like a cheap aurora. A fat, black ant wandered over the chipped section, pausing and twitching its antennae before continuing on a path that only it understood.

I didn't understand my path, and I sure as hell didn't understand Gaara's.

_Why? _That was the question I wanted to ask each villager who passed me, heading to where their Kazekage had been laid. Why had Gaara been chosen as Shukaku's host? Why did Akatsuki want the tailed beasts? And most importantly, why did Gaara have to die after recovering so much of his humanity and being needed by his village?

I knew people always asked why. Useless question. It never had an answer.

Baki, who was speaking quietly with a group of shinobi in the corner, broke away from them, walked over, and sat beside me. "Kankuro . . ." He paused, and from the corner of my vision, I could see him nod in Gaara's direction. "He looks oddly peaceful."

I didn't want to look up, but I did. Gaara's flesh had turned a pale blue-grey hue, and they couldn't cross his arms over his chest because he was too stiff. They'd left him in his battle garb for now, not wanting to attempt to dress him in his Kazekage robes during rigor mortis. His grey vest straps hung loosely off the pallet, signaling the absence of his sand gourd. But his face . . . to me, his face looked no more or less peaceful than always. He had no expression.

"Maybe," I finally mumbled, not wanting to be rude to Baki but wishing he'd leave. I didn't feel like talking to anyone, not even Temari. I just wanted my ototo back. My palms had begun to sweat from my tension, and I braced them against the cool concrete bench, pressing them hard against the rough surface.

A group of sobbing twelve-year-old genin entered the room — four of the many girls who'd developed a crush on Gaara. They held each other's hands as they walked up to him, but one of them began to wail when she reached him. The others hugged her from all angles, crying with her.

For a moment, I wanted to slap them. Why were they so upset? They didn't even _know_ Gaara. I was his nii-san; I was the one who should be crying. But I was in too much pain show any emotion: a strange burning sensation pumped through my veins with my blood. I didn't feel real, and yet my teeth ached with an emptiness I couldn't express.

They would have to cry for me.

"I failed him," I blurted out. It wasn't much more than a whisper, but I still had no idea I was going to say it until it was too late.

Baki glanced at me with surprise. "You failed him? How? No one in the entire Puppet Corps could have beaten Akasuna no Sasori alone. Not even Chiyo-baasama, as it turned out."

This time my voice was a whisper, one so faint I wasn't sure Baki would hear me. "I . . . _was _. . . his nii-san. It was my duty as a . . . a brother . . . to save him."

Baki had always been too practical, too logical, too rational to understand me. He was no different now. "You're being unreasonable, you know. I agree that it wasn't good that you lost your composure and ran after Gaara without reinforcements, but as it turned out, even if you'd waited, it wouldn't have done any good. Not against Sasori."

And then I remembered why I never showed my true feelings around him — him or anyone else. The shinobi world didn't have room for people like the real me, so it was better to wear the mask. "Actually," I replied, my voice turning angry, bitter, "the only reason I'll be able to live with myself was because _I tried._"

Baki jerked slightly, the only sign he even felt anything. "You know I care — cared — for Gaara, too," he said quietly.

It was true. He was horrid at showing it, but he'd stepped into a fatherly-like role for the three of us when Father had died: giving us advice, checking in on us, and making sure we were eating more than junk food. "I know."

It was a terse acknowledgement, and Baki took the cue and left. I stared at Gaara's body for countless minutes, wondering how I'd ever feel normal again, how I could let life move forward. Hell, I wondered how I'd even get off the bench, and that didn't count the remaining stiffness from Sasori's poison. I just didn't feel like standing. I rubbed my palms hard across the bench, roughing up my hands, hoping the friction could ground me, make me feel more real. It didn't.

I had sent reinforcements to replace Temari's team at the border as soon as I'd been able to walk, but Temari and her team had only just entered the village when the two Konoha teams had returned with an injured Chiyo-baasama and Gaara's body. Now Chiyo only had a day left to live, and Sakura-san was desperately trying to create more antidote for her. And Gaara . . . well, nothing could save Gaara.

But, no, I couldn't accept that. "It's not fair," I whispered. It was never fair. "It's not fair!"

A hand touched my shoulder and squeezed it, and I glanced up to find Temari standing behind me. She was looking at Gaara's body, not me, and tears stood in her eyes. Tears she'd never shed, but she couldn't quite hold them completely back. She squeezed my shoulder harder, and I realized the second squeeze wasn't so much to comfort me as to keep her steady.

"Sit," I said, and she did — she sat backwards on the bench, facing away from the stage.

"Damn it," she said, her voice low and sharp. "Damn it all to hell!" She began shaking faintly and bit her lip hard.

I knew what she felt, but I had no words for her. As a shinobi, I'd learned to talk trash, not to express myself. Shinobi didn't cry or reveal their hearts. _Men_ didn't.

But as a kunoichi, Temari was no less restrained. Trapped, really. She sat and shook, clenching her teeth and fists, and I did the only thing I knew to do. I wrapped one arm around her, hugged her to me, and said nothing at all.

She froze momentarily because I rarely hugged her, then she leaned her head on my shoulder. Her arm was cold where it brushed my wrist, but her waist was hot, as though all her body heat was seeking her heart in an attempt to warm it.

We sat together in silent misery for several minutes, sharing unspoken support, until two med nin entered the room and headed for Gaara's body. I assumed they were there to check if the rigor mortis was passing; they would remove him as soon as it did and seal him in his coffin. That realization made me feel nauseated again. But the sound of running footsteps interrupted my thoughts. Temari straightened and looked toward the door, and I followed her gaze.

Uzamaki Naruto burst into the room. "Don't touch him!"

I jumped faintly, jarred by the explosion of his yell across an otherwise silent room, but I understood his anger. I didn't want them touching him either; it would make his death too final.

All the shinobi and kunoichi present turned to stare at him, this irrational, unmannered genin who ran to the stage. The older med nin, who was dressed head to toe in tan robes and a turban, turned to face Naruto. "Uzamaki-kun, we have to check the body's status."

The younger med nin, who was dressed in solid white, nodded in agreement. "After all, the body hasn't even been treated."

Naruto visibly trembled. "Don't call it 'the body'! This is Gaara we're talking about. He's . . . he's your Kazekage!"

A fist seemed to squeeze my heart, then ram itself into my throat to choke me. I seethed with similar rage: he was right. How dare they refer to Gaara that way!

A tired, quiet voice spoke from the doorway. "Relax, Uzamaki Naruto."

I glanced in surprise toward the owner of that voice, shocked beyond words to see the woman who had avoided the village for so many years. An exhausted-looking Chiyo-baasama stood in the doorway, Sakura-san at her side.

"Please don't continue!" Sakura pleaded. "The antidote will be finished soon, but until then you shouldn't be moving."

Chiyo shook her head. "I —"

Naruto whirled around to face her. "Shut up!" Tears flew from his eyes from the force of his movement, and I almost had to look away. He was saying what I wanted to say, crying like I wanted to cry, and watching him was unhinging me.

Chiyo hesitated, apparently speechless. For a moment, I wished I could slap her face. If she hadn't sealed Shukaku into Gaara, he wouldn't have been killed.

Naruto continued to yell, and once again his words aligned with my thoughts. "If you Suna shinobi hadn't put a monster in Gaara, then nothing like this would've happened! Did any of you even try to ask Gaara how he felt?"

I jerked involuntarily, and beside me, Temari jerked as well. The guilt stung like scorpion poison. Until a few years ago, we'd been too scared to ask him how he felt, but that didn't make us any less culpable.

Naruto was not finished punishing us, however. "What is this 'Jinchuuriki' anyway? You just arrogantly made up that word to call us!"

Chiyo stared at the ground for several moments, her face a painting of sadness and regret. Then she walked to the stage, past Naruto, and put her hands on Gaara's chest. Taking a deep breath first, she suddenly discharged chakra into my brother.

Releasing Temari, I wrenched myself to my feet, knowing exactly what she meant to do. The Suna shinobi watched in confused silence, none of them knowing about the forbidden jutsu the Puppet Corps had researched. None of them, that is, except Temari and me. I knew from serving in the Puppet Corps, but I was the only member present, and well . . . I'd broken my oath of silence to discuss the concept with my sister. I couldn't keep much from her, and she never revealed anything I shared.

Temari stood and grabbed my arm, squeezing hard, but I couldn't spare a look for her. I literally held my breath, nearly insane with hope. Every muscle in my body tensed. _Please, please . . ._

The rest of the Konoha shinobi entered the room behind Sakura, who walked halfway up the aisle to Chiyo before stopping.

"Chiyo-baasama," she began, "that jutsu is —"

Naruto interrupted her, glaring at Chiyo. "What are you trying to do now?"

I started to speak, but Sakura beat me to it.

She turned toward Naruto. "She's bringing Gaara back to life."

Naruto grew utterly still. "Bringing him back to life? Can you really do something like that?"

The Suna shinobi grew restless at this announcement, a murmur of excitement running through the room. Temari's grip on my arm tightened further, and I put my hand on her hand and squeezed back. I could barely breathe; my lungs burnt like a swimmer who has been submerged for too long.

"This jutsu is one that only Chiyo-baasama knows," Sakura said, and by the frown on her face I knew that she understood the consequences.

Chiyo gasped suddenly, her arms trembling, and the glow of chakra around her hands dimmed. "Damn! Not enough chakra."

My heart nearly stopped beating in anguish. "No," I gasped, my entire body trembling with suppressed grief and desperation. We couldn't get this close only to fail! The cruelty of the concept was too much to bear.

Naruto's eyes grew wide, and he jumped onto the stage to kneel on the opposite side of Gaara. "My chakra," he said, catching Chiyo's gaze. "Try using it." He lifted both hands. "Can you do that, Baa-chan?"

I couldn't stand it a moment longer; I released Temari and pulled away from her. With quick, long strides, I joined Chiyo at the front of the room, although I stood away from the stage edge to give her space. "Chiyo-baasama," I whispered, my throat so tight I hardly made a sound. "Please . . ."

Temari joined me, watching the scene with desperate hope, one fist clenched at her chest.

Chiyo was gazing at Gaara with the saddest expression of regret I'd ever seen. "Place your hands on top of mine," she instructed Naruto.

I clenched both my fists, the hope burning in my chest so painfully I could barely draw breath. Naruto put his hands on Chiyo's, and the glow of chakra immediately tripled.

Chiyo spoke to Naruto quietly. "In this world of shinobi, made by many foolish old people, I'm glad to see someone such as you has appeared."

Everyone present, Konoha and Suna shinobi alike, listened to this in guilty silence. Naruto, though, looked surprised.

"My past . . ." Chiyo continued. "Everything I've done has been nothing but one mistake after another. Still in my very last moments, it looks like I'll finally be able to set things right."

Naruto looked no less confused, but I understood. Since I knew Chiyo-baasama had sealed Shukaku into Gaara at my father's request — killing my mother in the process — I had held her partially responsible for Gaara's . . . condition. I chewed on the inside of my lip, oddly comforted and yet disturbed by her admission.

"Suna and Konoha . . ." she said, "The future, starting now, will surely be different from the time I lived, so become a Hokage unlike any before you."

Naruto nodded silently; Sakura, knowing as well as I did that Chiyo was close to death, began to cry. I couldn't feel any pain for her, though; I just prayed the jutsu would work.

"Naruto, this old woman has a request of you." Her voice was growing weak. "You are the only person capable of understanding Gaara's suffering. Gaara understands your suffering as well."

I flinched, scalded by her words and the truth in them. As much as I wanted to be Gaara's nii-san, to assist him and empathize with him, there was one side of Gaara I could never even touch.

Chiyo took a deep breath. "Please, help Gaara for me." With those words, she seemed to faint, to merely fall backwards, and Sakura caught her and lowered her to the ground. But Sakura, Temari, and I knew what all the jonin present likely suspected: Chiyo-baasama was dead.

I couldn't spare any attention for her, though. My gaze turned to Gaara, my pulse racing so fast I trembled. Had it worked? "Ototo . . ."

Naruto bowed his head and closed his eyes, almost as though he were reaching out to Gaara soul-to-soul. Then Gaara stirred, and Naruto opened his eyes with the softest, oddest smile I'd ever seen — a smile caught somewhere between unspeakable grief and equally unspeakable joy.

The Suna shinobi began moving forward, some hopping onto the stage, others crowding in at the sides, until we surrounded Gaara and Naruto. I could feel the breathless hope we all shared; the room seemed to vibrate with it.

Naruto put his arm under Gaara's shoulders and sat him up. Gaara opened his eyes, but they were glazed, like he wasn't seeing anything yet. Naruto balanced him by keeping one hand on his shoulder, which he then squeezed. In response, Gaara turned to look at him and then blinked. His eyes cleared; I could literally see consciousness return to him. At this, I gasped, but my lungs still burnt from the breath I didn't realize I'd been holding.

"Gaara . . ." Naruto said.

Gaara's eyes widened in detectable shock. "Naruto . . ."

Naruto smiled more genuinely, but a certain sadness still played around his eyes.

However, Gaara apparently realized they weren't alone. With a wide-eyed stare, he glanced around the room, seeing the dozens of relieved Suna shinobi crowded around him. "This is . . ." Gaara's sentence trailed off, but the awe in his voice told me all I needed to know: he finally realized he was loved. The dream that he'd shared with me about being needed by the village — the dream I already knew was fulfilled — he now understood he had achieved it, also. I smiled, my grief slipping away and joy taking its place.

The sadness at last fell away from Naruto's expression. "They all wanted to save you!"

The shock on Gaara's face didn't ease; he gazed at Naruto with almost childlike wonder.

"Hey," Naruto continued, grinning in earnest, "you put us through a lot."

I couldn't contain myself any longer. I stepped up to the stage and nodded. "For sure." I sounded so offhand, so teasing, but in truth I spoke from the bottom of my heart. "You're a little brother I'll always have to worry about, huh?"

Gaara's shock only seemed to deepen. He turned his wide-eyed gaze upon me, and I had the odd urge to hug him, to ground him, to celebrate with him.

Temari walked up to him, and like me, she hid her relief with a massive attitude. "Hey, don't go getting all complacent," she admonished Naruto and me. "Gaara's still the Kazekage, so don't be so cheeky, you _underlings_."

Irritated, I glared at her, and Naruto joined me. It wasn't like I didn't know she was pulling the same riff as I was.

And sure enough, she turned around in an instant and contradicted herself, leaning toward Gaara with an expression of concern. "How are you feeling?"

_Hypocrite! _I wanted to yell, but she was too much like me in the 'talking trash' department, so I let it go.

Temari's show of concern won her a good dose of Gaara's shocked look, but as though speech had completely failed him, he didn't answer her and just tried to stand. His limbs trembled, however, and he grunted with the effort.

"You shouldn't be in such a hurry to move," Temari said. "Your body's not back to full health yet."

Gaara nodded and relaxed. Around us, shinobi were crying, shouting in joy, and even hugging each other in relief. A few girls ran up to Gaara, each one nearly hopping up and down in happiness, and Temari turned to ward them off. I jumped onto the stage and knelt by Naruto.

For a moment, my feelings were mixed: I hated myself for being so useless to Gaara, and that anger transferred to Naruto. I really wanted to deck him for being a brother to Gaara when I couldn't be. At the same time, however, I remembered how Gaara had told me Naruto helped him see he could change his life, and I couldn't be anything other than grateful. So I sucked it up. "Thank you, Naruto," I said, and I meant every word of it.

Naruto looked surprised. "You should be saying that to Baa-chan, not me. She saved Gaara with her amazing medical ninjutsu."

I frowned and glanced toward Chiyo. A miserable-looking Sakura held her against her shoulder, and Ebizo stepped forward and gazed down at his sister.

"She's passed out from tiredness now, but —" Naruto was saying.

"No," I interrupted him. I wasn't sure how to feel about it all. Chiyo had turned her back on the Puppet Corps and Suna for so long, and I got my brother returned to me in exchange . . . but she had sacrificed herself and been an honorable kunoichi.

Naruto's eyes widened in alarm. "What do you mean, 'no?'"

Temari glanced toward us and frowned.

"Chiyo-baasama is dead," I explained quietly. "That was no medical ninjutsu; it was a tensei ninjutsu. It restores life in exchange for the user's own."

Shock descended upon the entire room; I could feel everyone tense as they turned their gazes upon Chiyo.

"At one time, in Suna's Puppet Corps, people tried to research and develop a justu to give life to puppets," I continued, frowning as the reality of her sacrifice sank into me. "Chiyo-baasama led that. When she saw the risk was too high, she had it designated a forbidden jutsu."

Naruto stared at me with horror, then turned his gaze to the floor, looking saddened.

Ebizo stirred. "'I'm just playing dead.' I keep expecting her to laugh out loud and say that . . ."

I stared at the floor momentarily, struck above all by the old man's words. Just as I'd faced my brother's death, he was now facing his sister's. Except there was no one with a wild jutsu up their sleeve to save her.

"Naruto," Temari said after a moment's silence, "Chiyo-baasama entrusted the future to you and Gaara."

"Yeah," Naruto replied. "The same as Sandaime."

I glanced at him and raised an eyebrow, wondering what kind of relationship Naruto must have had with Sandaime Hokage in order for him to be able to say such a thing.

Naruto nodded, then turned his gaze upon Chiyo. "Yeah, I understand Baa-chan's feelings for sure now."

Gaara listened to this entire exchange in silence, closed his eyes briefly, then opened them. I could only imagine what he felt hearing that the woman who had damned him had now willingly sacrificed her life to save him and then left the future in his care. Gaara put one hand on his knee and tried to stand again, and Naruto caught him under his arm and helped him. Then, with Naruto's assistance, he climbed off the stage and walked up to Chiyo-baasama.

All the shinobi, Suna and Konoha alike, turned their attention to Gaara. In a quiet but commanding voice, he finally spoke. "Everyone, say a prayer for Chiyo."

We all bowed our heads, and I prayed for her in earnest and thanked Kami for her sacrifice. But what I really wanted was to make sure Gaara was all right.

* * *

Hours had passed since the Konoha teams had left for their home. I wandered through the Kazekage Complex's hallways, staring at the sunbeams racing across the floors and shivering as the air rapidly cooled. The sun would set soon, dropping Suna into darkness and plunging the temperature a dozen degrees.

I headed for the Kazekage's office, suspecting Gaara was still there, and tried to pull myself together as I went. I'd spent the morning lost in giddy joy, overwhelmed and thankful to have Gaara returned to me. Now, though . . . now I was tired, and an inexplicable grief had returned — not the kind associated with mourning, although we'd held a small service for Chiyo-baasama that afternoon so the Konoha teams could pay their last respects. No, it was a different kind of grief, and I suspected it was the pain of a nii-san who hadn't been able to help his ototo.

When I reached my destination, I knocked on Gaara's office door. The corridor seemed unusually chilly to me even though I was sweating with a sudden and unexpected nervousness.

"Come in," called Gaara's quiet, low-pitched voice.

I opened the door and entered, putting on a smile as I shut the door behind me. "Hey, man. How are you feeling?" It seemed an almost meaningless question in the face of all he'd endured.

Gaara sat behind his desk, still wearing his black mourner's clothes. He gazed at me with his usual impassive expression. "Tired and a bit stiff."

A blunt but honest answer — the kind he reserved for me. He had slowly begun confiding in me a few years earlier, shortly before we made chunin, and while I'd been surprised at first, it had made me proud and happy. "Sakura-san mentioned you'd have to sleep now."

Gaara nodded, a faint frown working its way across his features, furrowing his brow and bending the corners of his mouth. "It's . . . a strange thought."

I walked up and propped myself on the desk corner, loosely crossing my arms. "I'd think so." I started to say something teasing, something I hoped would cheer him up, when the memory of Chiyo's words shot through my mind: _"Naruto, you are the only person capable of understanding Gaara's suffering." _I stopped short and stared at the floor, wondering what the hell I thought I was doing. It wasn't like I could comprehend something as bizarre as having to sleep when you'd never done so before.

"Kankuro?" Gaara's voice, which might sound emotionless to anyone else, held a tint of curiosity. A tint that only Temari and I could catch.

Only Temari and I . . .

I glanced back at Gaara, my confidence returning. "Maybe you should turn in early, you know. Since you've never slept before, and just this morning you were —" I couldn't bring myself to say _dead_. "Well, it might be a good idea to go ahead and go to bed." He likely needed a great deal of rest, considering.

Gaara frowned outright. "You're probably right."

He sounded like a child who'd been ordered to eat a plate full of turnips. I couldn't help smiling. "Hey, of course I am. After all, I am your —"

Nii-san.

I stood abruptly, the word dying in my throat, and turned away from him. How could I make such claims when everyone else had helped him or saved him but me? I might have tried, but I'd also failed. As much as I wanted to protect him, to reach out to him, to connect with him, in the end, I'd been useless.

"Kankuro?"

This time I detected a hint of concern in Gaara's voice. The sound of a chair scooting across the floor followed, and although I couldn't hear his footsteps, I knew Gaara had stepped up behind me.

I glanced over my shoulder and gave him a smile that I hoped didn't look as fake as it felt. "Sorry, man. I had a moment, but I'm fine now."

He looked somber, and I knew he wasn't fooled. "What is it?"

I turned back toward him and felt myself grimace. How could I tell him I loved him? How could I explain to him that he was the most important person in the world to me? I still wasn't sure he'd even understand. "Gaara . . ."

The words weren't going to come. I put my hand on my chest, right over my heart; for a moment I was sure the organ would explode from the intensity of my pain. My teeth ached again, my eyes burnt, and I cursed myself at the thought I might actually break down and cry.

Gaara was staring at my hand. He had the strangest look of comprehension on his face, as though he suddenly knew the pain I felt. Then he reached up with his own hand and placed it over his heart. "You're . . . hurting. Why?"

I felt my eyes widen. He did understand. Something in my gesture had helped him to see into me. "Because —" I paused; my voice was so rough and broken I had to clear my throat. "Because . . ."

And once again I was trapped, caught between the shinobi code, the unspoken rules of manhood, and the reality of the person I really was inside.

Gaara looked up at me with an expression I could only call pleading hope, as though there was something he needed me to say, and he wanted it so badly it hurt. "Because?" he prompted in a small voice. The voice of a lost child.

Then I knew. I knew there was something I had to give that Naruto couldn't — something that no one except family could give to Gaara. And it was something that would help.

Since I couldn't speak, I acted — irrationally, impulsively, and without composure. I acted from the depth of who I was and mentally damned anyone I could imagine admonishing me. I reached out and pulled Gaara into my arms, hugging him against my chest. Only one word emerged: "Ototo."

Although he didn't react at first, he finally unfroze and grasped the front of my shirt in both his hands, then rested his head on my shoulder. I realized then that I was shaking, but I couldn't seem to stop. Tears stung my eyes, but I rested my cheek against his head, turning my face away so there was no chance he would see. He felt so fragile in my arms, and yet he was so warm. A warm face against my shoulder, soft red hair tickling my cheek and neck . . . he was alive, breathing, touchable.

For a long moment, neither of us moved. Then he wrapped one arm around my waist, as though to support me. When I still didn't stop shaking, he pulled back a bit and put his other hand over my heart. Even through my shirt, I could feel the heat radiating from his palm.

After a long pause in which I stared at his hand, he finally spoke. "Nii-san . . ."

I gasped. I didn't mean to, but the sound slipped out. I reached up and put my hand over his, lacing my fingers through his and then squeezing. He bent his fingers as I bent mine, and then he squeezed back. My shaking ceased but seemed to transfer to him: suddenly, he was trembling against me.

I released his hand and wrapped both arms around him again, hugging him and rubbing one hand up and down his back. He still clutched at my shirt in one fist, and I held him tightly, wishing I could give my strength to him. I tucked his head under my chin, determined to protect him with everything I had. "It's all right," I finally whispered. "It took us a long time, but . . ." I shook my head, then let go. Let myself speak. "I'll protect you, ototo. I'll look after you and protect you."

Gaara released my shirt. "Then . . ." His voice was strangled. "Then . . . look after me tonight."

I understood immediately: he didn't want to sleep. "Sure thing." I paused, hoping the idea wouldn't sound odd to him. "Why don't you spend the first night in my room? If I'm going to watch over you, then —"

"Okay," he said, sounding relieved.

I smiled. "Right, then. Let's go get some sleep." I released him, but when I saw how exhausted and worried he looked, I put one arm around his shoulders and guided him toward my room. Fear was an emotion he rarely showed, and seeing the way his brow furrowed made me scramble to reassure him. "Don't be afraid," I said quietly. "I said I'd look after you."

He nodded and leaned into me. "I know. I just . . ."

He didn't finish the sentence, but he didn't have to. I knew what he meant; this side of him I did understand. I smiled at him as we traversed the hallways, making our way from the public section of the Complex to the private quarters.

"What is it like to sleep?" Gaara frowned at the floor as we walked. "Putting myself into Tanuki Neiri no Jutsu was . . . I'm not sure I can explain it. I could feel Shukaku, even see what he was doing through his eyes, but I couldn't affect it or change it. So really, I just felt power. Shukaku's power rushing through me, out of me, and growing stronger and stronger the longer I was his medium."

I frowned. "Well, sleep is . . ." How did I even explain it? "It varies. Sometimes you fall asleep slowly and think weird things as you drift off. Sometimes you conk out suddenly and don't even realize it until you wake up. While you're asleep, you dream, but —"

"Dream?" Gaara's eyes widened slightly, and I'd never seen him so anxious. "People always talk about dreams, but . . ." He hesitated, and his voice dropped nearly to a whisper. "They sound disturbing."

We'd reached my bedroom door, so I opened it and let him walk in first. I followed behind him and slid the door closed. "Some are." No use in lying. "Most aren't. Most of them you won't even remember when you wake up. The really wacky ones that are funny and make no sense you might remember for a long time. But only rarely are they scary."

Gaara walked a few steps into my room and halted, facing away from me. "I don't want to dream about . . . all the people I needlessly killed in the past." His tone was sharp, edged with pain and fear; it was almost like watching his sand armor crack and drop off. "And I don't . . . want to dream about having Shukaku ripped out of me."

I flinched and stepped toward him. Watching his stoic mask peel away and the true pain beneath it lance through made me nauseated. I couldn't even begin to comprehend what he'd suffered during Akatsuki's jutsu.

"I don't want to dream about being dead or . . ."

I closed the distance between us, wrapping my arms around him from behind and pulling him back against my chest. "I can't make promises about what you will or won't dream."

He leaned his head back against my shoulder and glanced up at me, his eyes dull and flat. "I know." His seemed beyond afraid . . . almost sad.

I blushed over what I knew I had to say, but I was finished with my mask. Finished pretending. "But whatever it is, I'll be here when you wake up."

Gaara glanced away, training his gaze on my nightstand, and I could feel a fraction of his tension ease. "Thank you."

I smiled and released him. "Okay, then." I was still dressed in my mourner's clothes, too, so I simply pulled off my white belt and tossed it on the nightstand. "You'll have to decide what you like to sleep in, but for now, we can just sleep in these clothes. They're loose-fitting and comfortable."

Gaara followed my lead and pulled off his belt, too. "What do you usually wear?"

"My boxers and a t-shirt." I yanked down the covers on my bed as I talked. "Other guys have PJs of various kinds. And some guys sleep naked."

"Naked?" Gaara sounded scandalized. "Why would anyone want to sleep _naked?_"

I laughed. I couldn't help it. "They just find it comfortable." I climbed onto the bed and patted the space beside me. "This bed isn't made for two people, so . . ." And suddenly I found myself staring at the footboard, embarrassed. I hadn't really thought it through too well. "So we'll be sleeping pretty tight here."

Gaara didn't seem to mind this concept and didn't reply. He just climbed into bed beside me — or tried to. He was hanging halfway off the bed. "How . . . ?"

I lay down on my side, making room for him. "Lie on your side with your back to me."

He paused, then lay down as instructed. I pulled him back against me, wrapping my arm tight around him, ensuring he wouldn't fall off the bed. Then I smiled at the back of his head. "There." He was so thin I could wrap my arm around his waist and then reach up and rest my hand over his heart.

Gaara was quite still for a moment, almost frozen, then he relaxed. "Will you be . . ." His voice trailed off to a whisper. "Are you going to . . . hold me like this all night?"

I almost died, but I couldn't deny that keeping him from falling out of the narrow bed was almost a secondary concern. I wanted him to feel utterly safe. "Yeah."

A long pause followed, and I had no idea what he was thinking. He'd been shown very little physical affection in the course of his life, and I had no idea what he knew about sex. Then he reached up and put his hand over mine. "Good."

I realized he was probably fairly innocent, if only on this one count, so I relaxed. He wouldn't take anything the wrong way, and I was willing to chance a moment's confusion and explanation, anyway: he had fifteen years of missed affection to make up for, and I had seventeen years of repressed affection to offer.

He yawned. "How long will it take to fall asleep?"

"Depends," I answered quietly. I used chakra-strings to pull the sheet up over us.

"Can you tell right before you fall asleep?" He'd begun murmuring.

I smiled, watching as my breath lightly fluttered the hair at the nape of his neck. "Uh-huh."

He wiggled a bit, making me brace so I didn't lose my balance and fall out of bed. He yawned again. "And you'll watch? All night?"

I hugged him tighter, cherishing the fact his body was warm and alive now, not the cold, rigid corpse I'd had to witness. "Yeah. All night."

"Hn." The hand that he held over mine relaxed and dropped.

I closed my eyes and listened to his quiet, steady breathing — really listened to it. Focused on it, the sound beautiful to me. Then I opened my eyes and rose up slightly, propping my head on my hand and watching his face. This time, his expression truly was peaceful. His face held a faint pink hue, the traces of pale blue long gone, and the corners of his mouth were bent upward faintly.

I could have watched over him all night long, and I did.

My brother.

* * *

_A/N: Thank you to Darkhelmetj for betareading and to everyone who reads and reviews! Again, I apologize for not sending out individual thank you PMs for the ffdot net reviews here recently, but I do note and appreciate every review I get. Thank you, everyone._

_Exact dialogue was taken from fan translations — which I prefer to the Shonen Jump version because they seem to adhere to the characters' "voices" better — of_ Naruto_ chapters 278-281 and is therefore technically copyrighted to Kishimoto._


	2. Gaara's POV

_A/N: I received a few requests for a second chapter from Gaara's POV, and I found that thought to be a nice challenge since Gaara is an unusually philosophical and observational character — even when he's insane. I've always been fascinated by the way he reasons things out and the observations he makes, like what he says to Lee about people following evil guys just to escape loneliness. So here it is: the next day, Gaara's first person POV._

_Translations, jic: "nii-san"=older brother; "ototo"=younger brother. As I'm sure the Kanky fans know, "jan" is the random syllable Kankuro adds to some of his sentences because he speaks with a punk/Yankie accent._

* * *

**Chapter Two: The Day After I Died**

I awakened in the dark, shadows bunching in the room's corners, and couldn't figure out where I was. For a moment I felt unreal, felt sure I was in some strange place between life and death, unable to cross over and trapped watching a younger version of myself crying all alone. That painful moment seemed suspended forever in my mind, those hot tears burning my cheeks as my lungs ached from the sobs. No one would come to comfort me, I knew.

A shiver ran through my body, a cold wave of goosebumps that began with my scalp, scurried down my spine like spiders, then raced across my legs. I shuddered, but the sensation itself assured me I was very much alive, which only left the problem of _where_ I was.

Then I began noticing it: the feeling of warm breath ghosting across the nape of my neck, the sound of steady breathing, and the warm arm wrapped around my waist. An equally warm hand was resting on my chest, over my heart, communicating something to me I'd always searched for but never dared to believe was real:

_Ai. _Love.

A flush burned across my cheeks at the thought that someone actually wanted to be in my presence, talk to me, spend time with me, _for me._Someone had finally come to comfort me: first Naruto and now my brother. Apparently even half the village had wanted to save me; I no longer had to be alone. It was so overwhelming I could hardly comprehend it. I'd been so stunned seeing them all standing around me, both worried and relieved, that I'd been unable to move or speak. Thinking back on it, I felt a small smile tugging at my lips.

Then a second wave rose in me, a tingling pain that prickled through my lungs and stomach, matched with the thought it wasn't true. I wasn't loved. Or I was loved, but it could only last as long as I earned it. That I'd have to pay a lifetime's penance, continually working to maintain those feelings in another. Was such a thing even possible?

Then my nii-san spoke. "Gaara? You all right?"

I should have known I'd awaken him. He was used to sleeping, used to reacting quickly to sounds or movements when asleep. "I'm fine." Should I admit what had disturbed my rest? I could find no reason not to. "I . . . dreamed I was dead." I had a vague sensation that I'd dreamed more previous to that; vague images of sun shining on blood splatters ghosted through my mind. Fortunately, I wasn't able to recall anything more.

He hugged me closer, and I felt the strength of his arm. "I'm sorry."

With his warmth around me, I couldn't feel fear. Among the few experiences in my life that I deemed pleasant, it was the oddest. Part of me felt too restricted being held; my personal space felt violated. The other part of me, which was currently winning my internal struggle, seemed to be drinking in the sensation, sucking it down to the cellular level like cracked earth during a rain storm. "It seemed . . . short," I found myself explaining. "As soon as I realized I was awake, I was fine." As soon as I'd known I wasn't in that horrible moment anymore, I added mentally. "But I was confused for a second and couldn't figure out where I was."

"That happens sometimes, even to me. Especially if I'm sleeping in a bedroom that's not mine."

His voice was low, quiet. Comforting. The rough accent he normally employed was smoothed over, and the off-hand, smartass way he usually spoke was absent. I had the strangest sense that he was talking to me in some special way, some private or reserved way that he'd never used with anyone else. It made me vaguely nervous since I couldn't figure out why he'd address me in such a way, and yet, contradictorily, it made me feel safe.

"I'm sure you'll adjust to that part quickly," he continued, and oddly enough, I believed him.

"Kankuro . . ." I glanced over my shoulder, and enough moonlight filled the room that I could make out his features. He gazed at me with a gentle look I'd never seen before — a look I didn't understand. A sharp pain burst in my heart like a miniature nova: I felt scared by my feelings, but at the same time I would have sacrificed all I had to have him look at me that way again. All my life, I had wanted to matter to someone, to be special, to have the force and power of that care aimed entirely at me. I glanced toward the window, hoping my facial expression had remained neutral.

He seemed to sense my distress. "What is it?" He hugged me tighter once more.

"I . . ." What could I say? I wasn't even sure what was happening. I just knew I felt warm, and I realized that in his own way, he'd been protecting me for at least a year now, telling people to back off if they over-pressured me or punching them if they insulted me. "Thank you."

A soft chuckle filled the otherwise silent room. "Any time, ototo."

At his words, I squeezed my eyes shut, overcome for a moment. It hurt — made me desperate for something I couldn't name. But I wished he would always call me _ototo _from now on.

I felt him shift, and then he pressed a kiss into my hair. "Try to go back to sleep," he murmured.

"Hn," was all I could say. I was too preoccupied with how I was going to ask him to let me sleep beside him the next night as well. I didn't want to burden him, but I was convinced his calm assurance was what enabled me to sleep. These odd things called "dreams" weren't pleasant, but I felt strangely unflappable with Kankuro by my side. Having him to speak to me when I awakened seemed to ground me quickly.

He settled behind me once more, his breathing steady, his warm breath blowing across the nape of my neck again, and I began to feel heavy. Drowsy, I supposed. After a few minutes, I could hardly keep my eyes open and strange images exploded behind my eyelids.

* * *

"I wish you'd never been born."

I frowned and turned toward Kankuro, hurt by his words. "Wh-what?" I stared at him, and everything seemed familiar, yet wrong. He was carrying Karasu wrapped on his back, and we were standing in front of a ramen restaurant in Konoha.

Kankuro smirked, pulled Karasu off his back, and thumped the bandaged puppet on the ground. "Heh. Are you deaf? I said I wish you'd never been born, _jan._"

Naruto sat at the ramen counter on a stool. As Kankuro spoke, he swirled around and faced me. He was twelve again, wearing his orange and blue jumpsuit, and a small red frog sat on his shoulder. "You know we're both monsters," he said solemnly. "I understand your pain, but neither of us will ever be accepted."

Their words and actions seemed bizarre and disjointed, but at Naruto's proclamation, I felt a rush of anxiety. It was something I'd known all my life, but I didn't want to hear it from his lips.

Kankuro hopped onto the stool by Naruto, and Karasu was suddenly gone. "Ramen, please," he told Temari, who stood behind the counter.

Temari ignored him and stared at me. "You died. Why are you here?"

I felt cold. "Chiyo revived me." My voice sounded distant and lifeless to me.

"Go away," she snapped, propping one hand on her hip. "You're not wanted here."

Kankuro glanced over his shoulder at me. "Yeah. We never thought of you as our brother."

I stumbled back a step, stung, and yet I wasn't surprised. I had always been alone. But I didn't want to be alone anymore! Hadn't someone accepted me? I struggled to recall some memory just outside of my grasp. This wasn't right. It couldn't be right. I didn't _want _it to be right.

Kankuro still smirked at me. "Who'd want a monster like you, _jan_?"

Naruto crossed his legs on the stool and frowned at me. "Yeah, I'm disappointed in you, Gaara. I thought you had things figured out."

Kankuro was abruptly standing by me again. "He'll never figure it out. He's a monster, _and_ he's dead. Let's just hurry up and bury him. I don't wanna look at him anymore." He grabbed my arm, jerking me away from the stand. No one moved to stop him or help me.

"Kankuro!" I felt a shooting pain in my chest; it burned down both my arms and stole by breath. "You said you —"

I jolted awake with a faint gasp. Sunlight flooded the room, and after a moment I realized I was still in Kankuro's bedroom. I bolted upright, feeling nauseated, and sat on the edge of the bed, trying to breathe. The strange, jumbled images from the dream tumbled in my head, taunting me.

Behind me, the mattress shook as Kankuro sat up and scooted over to kneel beside me. "Gaara? What's wrong? Did you have another nightmare?"

I glanced at him, really looked at him. His spiky hair — a brown version of my own — was tousled, and his clothes were wrinkled. His shoulders were slumped, but his eyes were clear of grogginess. In fact, he looked worried, his brow furrowed.

"Yes," I said after a long pause. "It was . . . weird. It didn't make much sense, but bad things were happening in it." I felt cold, just like I had in the dream.

Kankuro frowned and wrapped one arm around my shoulders, pulling me against his chest. "Sorry." He rubbed my shoulder absently. "Most dreams are like that — they don't make a lot of sense after you wake up. But still . . . it was only a dream."

_Was it? _I wanted to ask, but his warm embrace caused the words to die in my throat. However, I could remember when he used to hate me like he had in the dream. Or at least I'd thought he'd hated me. He definitely had feared me, but he'd still possessed the habit of getting right into my face. He'd always tried to reason with me, and when that failed, he'd gotten angry at me for brushing him off.

But sitting encircled in his arms, I had to wonder. He'd always been the one to carry me if I got chakra-exhausted; he'd always yelled my name if he thought I'd actually been hurt. And after I'd met Naruto, I'd realized they reminded me of each other to a degree: they both had a brash, impulsive way of charging in to protect people they cared about, even against overwhelming odds. And as if to underscore my observations, Temari had told me the previous evening that Kankuro had fought Akasuna no Sasori in an effort to rescue me . . . and had nearly died.

At that thought, my heart fluttered — a kind of loping beat that made me cough — and a tingling sensation whisked through my chest and limbs. Was I ill? I lifted my head and gazed up at Kankuro, then I forgot to breathe. He was watching me with that tender look again, as though I were the most special person alive. "Kankuro?"

"What, ototo?" He grinned at me then, a playful smile, and mussed my hair with one hand.

Before I realized what I'd done, I grabbed a fistful of his shirt. Shocked by my own odd behavior, I buried my face into his shoulder. "Keep calling me that."

I felt his body stiffen and wondered if I'd just said something stupid or done something wrong. Then the arm he'd kept around my shoulder tightened, and he hugged me against him again. "Sure thing, ototo."

Instantly, I felt relieved. I paused awkwardly for a moment, then slipped my arms around his waist and loosely hugged him back. I still couldn't figure out how to ask him if he'd sleep by me again or why I found his presence so calming. Or why he'd apparently grown to care about me.

All I knew was that I needed him to keep caring. I wanted him to be my nii-san so much my chest ached, and I wasn't sure what to do to continue to earn his affections. But I couldn't tell him that.

I wasn't sure I could ever express words such as those.

* * *

All day I was distracted. I sat in my office, trying to process several days of border reports, but I kept accidentally rereading the same sentence or paragraph until I became irritated. Losing my temper faintly, I'd stamp the reports without finishing them if I realized they were just overly verbose renditions of "nothing happened."

At lunchtime, Kankuro — who had been forced onto medical leave for three days until he finished recovering from being poisoned — knocked on my door and entered carrying two bento boxes. "Hey, man. You about ready for a break?" He snorted. "Or maybe I should say it's time for me to force you to take a break, _jan._"

I glanced up at him, barely biting back the question _"Why are you talking that way again?"_ The Kankuro of the previous night had vanished as though he'd never existed. Had his care for me already worn off now that I was safe and basically healthy once more? If so, I wasn't sure what to do to keep earning his affection.

Kankuro frowned and crossed the room, setting the bento box on my desk. "You okay?"

Apparently my irritation was leaking onto my face. I sighed and rubbed my forehead, only to realize my skin was hot to the touch. In fact, I felt hot all over. Had someone closed off the ventilation system for repairs? "Yes, I'm fine. The paperwork has gotten extremely backed up, though, and I'm buried under border reports."

Kankuro smirked. "That's why I came to force you to take time for lunch."

He turned away, heading for a chair in the corner, and I watched him as he dragged the chair up to my desk. He was dressed in all black as usual — I'd never seen him wear any other color since he was eight — and had his purple face paint on. Since he wasn't on duty, he wasn't wearing his hood or carrying his scrolls, but I had to wonder why he insisted on the face paint anyway. I'd wondered it for years but never bothered to ask.

He sat across the desk from me and opened the bento boxes. "Here."

He shoved one box over to me, and I surveyed the contents: one compartment held a bed of rice with a layer of stir-fry vegetables on top; another held a bed of rice with shredded salmon and salmon roe on top. The smaller compartments held maki sushi, wasabi, and soy sauce. I realized based on the food choices that he'd made the lunches himself, not bought them at a store.

"You made this," I observed.

He glanced away for a moment, then looked back at me and smiled, closing one eye as he did. "Yeah. So even if it tastes bad, suck it up, man."

I knew then that he was embarrassed that I called attention to his kindness. He always looked away when uncomfortable, and he always closed one eye when giving people attitude — or in this case, copping attitude to disguise his embarrassment. "None of the food you make tastes bad," I assured him and picked up my chopsticks, snapping them apart.

Kankuro snorted, but I caught the small smile turning up the corners of his lips. "Nah, I'm not that great at cooking."

It wasn't true. He was far better at it than either Temari or I. As quiet as he was in his personal life, he had this blatant performer's streak when fighting, and that same streak seemed to apply to cooking. He was so good at it that Temari had rearranged our assigned house chores so Kankuro could cook all our meals.

"Thank you," I said simply, then dug into my lunch.

He grinned at me, a genuine smile, and I stopped to consider his reaction. In fact, I stopped to consider his behavior on the whole. He never complained about any assignment I gave him nor assignments Baki had given us when we were younger. Even if he blatantly disagreed with things, he held his peace unless someone he cared about was in danger. He talked trash with Temari all the time, but if she got sick or injured, he stayed up with her all night, taking care of her and even staying in the bathroom with her while she vomited. He was a totally brash smartass on the battlefield and engaged in verbal sparing matches with his friends, but if anyone threatened or insulted his friends, he'd beat them to a bloody pulp. He wasn't particularly philosophical, except on the subject of art, but he traded it for always putting his fist behind his words. In short, he was the least hypocritical person I knew.

I stared at him as he popped a piece of sushi in his mouth and realized why I had chosen him to talk to when I'd begun my odyssey to become Kazekage. It was the same reason I felt desperate for him to treat me as though I were special to him. Under his smart-assed punk mask, he was a person who genuinely, deeply cared about the people close to him, just like Naruto. And I wanted to be one of those people he loved.

I realized I no longer needed to ask him why he wore face paint.

"What is it?" he asked, pointing his chopsticks at my food. "Did I over-season it? You're hardly eating anything."

I glanced at the food, struck with a horrible yearning and wanting nothing more than for him to hug me again. Being touched did feel strange on one level, but I supposed my confused feelings were normal. No one had ever embraced me until he had the day before. It had always been a point of anger and pain for me, so much so that watching that odd jonin Maito Gai hug Lee after our battle had evoked pure rage in me. I had wanted that touch, and now Kankuro had offered it to me. "No, it tastes great. I just—"

Was nauseated, I recognized. I not only felt hot, I felt nauseated. Distressed by this strange sensation and wondering if I'd let my emotions get the better of me, I put my hand on my forehead again. It was faintly sweaty, I realized, and still hot to the touch.

Kankuro watched me closely. "Do you feel okay?" He stood and walked around my desk. "I know your chakra is still really low right now, but is it more than that?"

I dropped my hand to my lap. "I don't know. I feel . . . hot. And nauseated."

He put his hand against my forehead, then moved it under my chin. He frowned, his brow furrowing. "You have a fever." He sighed. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised. Dying would have to wreak havoc on a person's system. Especially since you were gone for . . . for —" He turned away abruptly and stalked toward the door.

I realized he could barely talk about the fact I'd died. "Kankuro? What are you doing?"

He glanced over his shoulder. "Informing your personal aide and your secretary you'll be taking the rest of the day off."

I slapped both hands on my desk, feeling bizarrely panicked. "I can't! I have to finish all this paperwork."

He stared at me, and I realized I was acting oddly — deeply oddly. "No, today you're going to listen to your nii-san," he said. "You're coming down ill, and you're spending the rest of the day in bed." He left without further comment.

I realized arguing with him was pointless. He had his stubbornly determined look — the one where even death threats didn't always work. Resigned, I slumped in my chair and tried to swallow another bite of rice. He had gone to the trouble of making me lunch, after all.

Then I was hit by a thought: would he stay by me like he did for Temari? Would he stay up with me all night and kneel by me in the bathroom floor if I had to vomit?

My hands shook at the thought, and I dropped my chopsticks. I hadn't prayed very often in my life: a few times as a young child and a few times as Kazekage for special occasions such as Chiyo's death. But this time I wanted to pray for myself because I'd found something that I wanted as much as being Kazekage and being accepted by my village.

I wanted my brother's love.

* * *

I awakened and was immediately confused. Where was I now? And what was happening? I blinked several times, feeling muddled, and glanced to my right. My bedroom. I was in my bedroom, in my bed, and muted sunrays were racing across my chest from the window.

"How are you feeling now?"

Turning toward the soft voice, I found Kankuro sitting in a chair to my left, his feet propped on the foot of my mattress. A sketchpad lay in his lap.

"Fine," I immediately answered, then stopped to consider whether this was true. It wasn't. I was sweaty and nauseated still, my head and stomach hurt, and I felt like I'd been left in the desert at high noon. The only good thing was that I couldn't remember my dreams, although I was vaguely aware they'd all been nightmares. "Not fine. I'm hot and nauseated, and I hurt all over."

Kankuro nodded and stood, setting his sketchpad on my bed. "I'll get the medicine, then."

I watched him stand and walk to my dresser where a box, pitcher, and cup sat on a tray. I secretly smiled at his back, finding some of my pain displaced by a wave of affection: he _had _stayed by me, just like he did with Temari. In fact . . .

I thought hard, pushing back through layers of jumbled dreams and strange sensations, then I remembered: he had escorted me to my room, fussed over me until I changed clothes and got in bed, then left to get a med nin. "I must have fallen asleep while you were away," I mumbled.

"Yeah." He returned to my bedside and set a fizzling cup of medicine on the nightstand. "Just proves how ill you are." He held out his hand. "You need to sit up before you try to drink this."

I took his hand and let him pull me up. My head swam, causing me to groan and put my fingers to my temple. "What's wrong with me?"

Kankuro sat on the bed behind me, wrapping one arm around me and supporting me. "The med nin said your stomach is reacting badly to food because all your systems shut down so completely when you . . . died."

His difficulty saying that word made me internally smile; he really had cared that I'd died. I leaned against him, his warmth still comforting despite the fact I was apparently running a fever. "Is that so?"

"Yeah. You were . . . so long that . . . well, it's like someone who's been starved for months who tries to eat a five course meal as soon as he finds food. Your body just can't handle it right now." He picked up the medicine cup and handed it to me. "Plus your immune system was completely trashed, so you could have a virus on top of that. Basically, your attempt to proceed like nothing happened made you sick."

I sniffed the medicine, which smelled like seawater, and the fizzling bubbles popped against my nose. "What is it?"

"It's a generic remedy. It'll lower your fever, reduce your pain, and settle your stomach." He reached up and brushed my sweaty hair back from my forehead. "The med nin said she'd make you some stronger medicine, but this'll have to do for now.

I closed my eyes, having never felt as safe as I did in that moment. "Nii . . . san . . ." I wanted to tell him how much I appreciated it, but when I tried to speak, panic rose in my gut. What if he didn't feel what I felt? Or what if he stopped caring? He would know my true feelings and use them to hurt me. I didn't think I could withstand another betrayal like Yashamaru's; I had let Shukaku consume me for years just to protect myself from such pain.

Kankuro kissed me on the top of my head, and I felt a tingling sensation in my chest. Maybe it would be okay . . . maybe. I sipped the carbonated medicine, which tasted like cold saline, and found it soothing.

When I was finished, Kankuro took the cup and set it back on the nightstand. "Try to get some more rest," he said, and his voice was gentle again, just as it had been the night before.

I let him lower me back on the bed, but in truth I wished he would lie beside me. I felt embarrassed and silly asking for such a thing, though, so I said nothing. I was fifteen and the Kazekage, after all; I shouldn't need so much support over a simple illness. Then again, I didn't have any experience being sick. Shukaku had kept my immune system bolstered to the point I'd never even had a common cold.

Kankuro returned to his chair, picking up the sketchpad that he drew his puppet designs in. I watched him for a moment, wanting something from him but unsure what. He noticed me staring and sat forward, squeezing my arm. "You'll be okay," he said softly, smiling at me. He had that look again — the one that seemed to say I was special.

"Thank you," I whispered, and my eyes began feeling heavy. Apparently sleep was going to claim me again.

* * *

When I awakened the second time, my bedroom was dark. I lay frozen, the world of my nightmare crossing over into reality for a moment. I had been in an unlit corridor, being chased by an amorphous black figure that felt every bit as evil as Shukaku. Although I'd tried to escape, every door had been locked, and every turn in the maze-like hallway had led to a dead end. Even after I'd figured out it was a dream, I hadn't been able to wake up at first, struggling against the veil of unconsciousness until I finally tore through.

Now that I was safely awake, I tried to breathe deeply and calm my pounding heart; after all, it could have been worse — it could have been a nightmare about Shukaku's extraction. Faint rays of moonlight slanted across my bed, but beyond that, black shadows lurked in the corners, stretching across the ceiling and floor. I was drenched in sweat and felt cold and nauseated. My stomach roiled and churned, growling at me.

"Kankuro?" I whispered.

No reply came. I glanced around the room, turning my head slowly so it wouldn't swim, but as my eyes adjusted, I realized the room was empty. The chair Kankuro had been sitting in was pushed back in its corner, and the medicine tray was gone.

He had left me.

"No!" I gulped, the word escaping me before I could stop it. Tears stung my eyes, and I felt stupid, hurt, angry, lost, and above all, unstable. He loved Temari; I knew he did. They teased and tormented each other, but they loved each other. He always stayed all night with her, no matter how sick she got. But he didn't love me. He'd just fed me my medicine and then left.

I lumbered into a sitting position, the room spinning slightly around me as my stomach lurched. I was going to vomit; I was sure of it. I hadn't vomited since the night Yashamaru had betrayed me, but I still remembered the sensation — the way my mouth watered uncontrollably, my stomach clenched, and my body shook. I jerked the covers off and stood, stumbling toward my bathroom.

I barely made it to the toilet before I vomited, and once it was over, I sat on the floor, my head resting on my arm, which I propped on the toilet seat. I still felt so, so ill. Chills raced through my limbs, and my face felt hot . . . but all I could do was cry — another thing I hadn't done since the night Yashamaru betrayed me. But now tears streaked down my face, wetting my arm, and my sobs made my stomach hurt even worse.

"Why?" I whispered. Was this my eternal punishment for giving into my hatred and Shukaku's murderous impulses as a child? I could drum up some affection in other people's hearts, but it would never remain. How could I do it? How did Naruto do it? How did I earn someone's permanent love?

And how could I even begin if they always left me . . .

A memory flashed through me: Kankuro's warm embrace the night before. The thought hurt far more than dying. I wanted that love so much my blood burnt in my veins. He had called me "ototo" . . . was love really so fleeting? A louder sob ripped out of me, then my stomach roiled. I began vomiting again.

"Gaara?"

I heard Kankuro's voice but couldn't respond. I couldn't stop retching. Still, I heard the sound of running footsteps, a small _thunk_, and then Kankuro was kneeling by me.

"Ototo!" He moved away, then I heard running water.

I felt confused, but my stomach was tied up too tight for me to react. I kept heaving until nothing remained, then flushed the toilet with a weak slap on the handle. Kankuro knelt by me again, pulling me into his arms, holding me tight against his chest, and rubbing a cold washcloth over my face.

"Kankuro?" I whispered, confused, hot, ill, and teary-eyed.

"I'm sorry," he replied, running the cold washcloth over my forehead, my cheek, my neck. "You seemed so soundly asleep that I really didn't think you'd wake up or vomit before I returned with the medicine."

I grabbed a fistful of his shirt, torn between despair and hope. "More medicine?" I began shivering again, as though both my body and mind had taken more than they could handle.

"Yeah." He set down the washcloth and reached toward the sink.

As I blinked the tears from my eyes and watched him, I realized the _thunk _I'd heard was the sound of his slamming down a tray. He lifted a cup off of it and handed it to me.

"It's stronger medicine," he said.

For a moment I wasn't sure I could drink it, but cold bubbles were popping out of it and hitting my face, and it seemed appealing to me. I reached for the cup, but my hand shook so badly Kankuro had to help hold it steady. When I was finished, he returned the cup to its tray, and I stared at him in the pale moonlight that shone through the small bathroom window. So he . . . hadn't abandoned me? But the chair had been pushed back in place, and . . .

I leaned against his shoulder, my feelings jumbled. Only then did I pay attention to the shirt I was brutally gripping. A t-shirt. It was a t-shirt, not his normal shirt. I glanced up at him, and with my tears gone, I could see him more clearly. His face paint had been washed off. Realization dawned slowly on me. "You're . . . dressed for sleep?"

He nodded slowly. "It's midnight. And your bed is king-sized. I figured I could borrow a corner without disturbing you."

The silly tears came back. I felt ridiculous and embarrassed . . . I felt hot, shaky, and ill. I was a wreck and couldn't seem to control my emotions, so I hid my face against his neck.

"Gaara?"

He sounded so worried. His arm, so much larger than mine, tightened around me protectively, then he slipped his other arm under my knees. "Let's get you back in bed." He picked me up like I weighed nothing and carried me to my bed, laying me down.

But I wouldn't release his shirt. "Nii-san . . ." I couldn't tell him how much I didn't want to be alone, how much I really _did_ want him as my brother, how much I needed his care. Yet I clung to him stubbornly, unwilling to let him go.

He climbed on the bed and lay down beside me. "What, ototo? I'm not going anywhere."

I rolled onto my side and faced him, but I couldn't meet his eyes. "Good. Don't." I didn't even want to know what he thought of my wild emotional display. I hoped I hadn't disgusted him.

But he just wrapped his arm around me and pulled me close to him, then rubbed my back gently. "You're going to be fine," he whispered. It was the soft voice again. "And I'll stay beside you until you feel better."

"Nii-san . . ." I began, then hesitated. I had to tell him that I needed him, that I appreciated him, that I wanted this care he showed me.

"I know," he said simply.

I frowned, confused. Did he really know what I felt, what I needed to say?

"Just let me protect you," he whispered.

I relaxed into his arms and felt younger, almost as though I were six again. It wasn't a bad feeling. I was warm and safe, and there was another person in the world who loved me and wanted to look out for me. "I will," I murmured.

This time when I slept, I didn't have any nightmares.

* * *

_A/N: Thank you to Darkhelmetj for beta reading and to everyone who read and reviewed chapter 1! I appreciate your feedback and your encouragement to write a second chapter._


	3. Kanky's POV

_A/N: Back to Kankuro's POV. This story won't leave me alone, so I'm just going to keep going until it does._

_Translation reminders: "ototo" means younger brother, and "jan" is the random syllable/word Kankuro adds to some of his sentences because he speaks with a punk/Yankie accent._

* * *

**Chapter Three: What is Love?**

When I awakened in the morning, Gaara was sound asleep, my arm still armed around him. I felt an odd surge of pride, or happiness, or . . . some bizarre mixed feeling that I'd finally been able to take care of my ototo and that he'd _let_me do so. Connecting with him over the past few years had not been easy, even with us both trying in our awkward but determined ways.

Sunlight poured through the round windows lining the right-hand wall, illuminating the beiges and blues of the Kazekage suite. My internal clock informed me I'd overslept by about two hours, but since I was on medical leave, I didn't care. I pulled back and watched Gaara's peaceful, sleeping face for several minutes, realizing he looked oddly young, and pondered whether to awaken him. Since he'd been ill, he needed as much sleep as possible — twice so given he wasn't used to sleeping. At the same time, he'd apparently been thrown off by waking up and finding me not present during the night. I had several disturbing thoughts on that matter, but they'd have to wait until later.

Deciding he'd prefer to know I was leaving, I rubbed his shoulder, and after several moments, he opened his eyes and gazed at me blurrily.

"Kan . . . kuro . . ." He stretched rather luxuriously and then yawned.

"Hey," I said, aware that I didn't sound like myself but not caring. Since he wasn't feeling well — since no one else was around — I couldn't seem to muster my usual persona. "How do you feel this morning?"

Gaara paused and stared at my shoulder, and I knew he was assessing himself. "Better. I'm not nauseated now, but I feel a bit weak and dehydrated."

"That's normal." I squeezed his shoulder and then climbed out of bed. "I'll have some benign food sent up. You stay put until you feel like moving around, okay? I'll update your personal aide and secretary."

He nodded slowly, and I could tell there was something he wanted to say. I paused, but when he remained silent, I gave him a smile of encouragement and left. I knew that, just like during the night, there were words caught in his throat. Despite the fact Gaara was an eloquent speaker when he wanted to be, he didn't have any more luck than I normally did at coughing up his deepest feelings. But I had seen the look in his eyes, watched his actions and body language, and listened to the tone of his voice, and I felt sure I understood what neither of us could say. Or at least say well.

Still, after I had the food sent up to Gaara and talked to his secretary, I sought out Temari. Something bothered me . . . well, several things bothered me, and even though I had a pretty solid intuition, I knew I'd have to bounce some ideas off my sister. I found her in the kitchen attempting to make a bento box for her lunch.

"Yo," I called as I entered. I plopped down on the table stool and watched her. The entire Kazekage mansion was old and traditional, with hardwood and tatami floors, kotatsu tables, and a central garden, but as the decades had passed, some modern, imported furniture had been added, such as the high-top kitchen table and stools.

Temari glared at me as she dipped a clump of rice into her bento. "Don't just saunter in here and say 'yo.' If you have this much free time on your hands, the least you can do is fix lunches for those of us who are on duty."

I grinned at her, translating her attitude immediately. "Oh, so you burnt your lunch and want me to fix you a better one, _jan_?"

"Jackass."

I laughed, and she grinned back at me. We rarely fought about anything, but my day wasn't complete unless I gave her a hard time. "Sure, sure," I sighed, sliding off the stool and joining her at the counter. "Damn, what would you and Gaara have done if I hadn't figured out how to cook?"

"Don't rub it in." She picked up the knife on the cutting board. "I'm armed, and you aren't."

I snorted. Her day wasn't complete unless she gave me a hard time, too. "You don't want to be some traditional wife, anyway."

"Fair enough." She set down the knife.

_Score._

"Well, the rice seems fine." I retreated to the refrigerator for pickled eggplant, wasabi sauce, and salmon. "I suppose you can handle the carrots and stuff, right?" I nodded toward the vegetables she'd cut up.

She smirked at me. "I can at least do that much."

I joined her at the counter again and, while we worked on her lunch, pondered how I was going to bring up what I needed to ask her. "Temari . . ." I paused in slicing up the fish for her nigiri-sushi. "I know people don't really act like themselves when they're sick, but something weird happened last night while I was taking care of Gaara."

Temari glanced up from the vegetables she was cooking, and a worried look knitted her brow. "Well, he was very sick for a few hours there, so I guess that's not surprising. Why? What happened?"

I resumed cutting the fish, which I then pressed against the sushi rice. "Well . . . he passed out pretty good there for an hour, so I went to change clothes and get him more medicine. But when I came back, I found that he'd woken up and begun vomiting."

Temari raised one eyebrow. "That's not weird."

I shook my head. "No, no. When I came back, he acted like he thought I'd abandoned him. He seemed . . ." I hesitated, bothered by the memory, and packed the sushi into the bento box. "Well, he was . . . crying. And he was, like, shocked that I'd gotten more medicine and returned to stick out the night with him." I frowned as I bound a second piece of nigiri sushi together.

Temari turned off the stove and leaned against the counter beside me. "Are you really surprised?"

I glared at her and flopped the sushi into her box. "I always stick it out with you, no matter how many times you puke your guts out, _jan._." I sighed and picked up the pickled eggplant, arranging it around one side of the bento. It seemed easier to bare my thoughts if I was doing something with my hands. "Why would Gaara assume it'd be different for him? I've stuck by his side the whole time he's been Kazekage, and if he had any doubts left, wouldn't they be settled by the way we all rushed to save him from Akatsuki?"

"I don't think that's the problem." She cocked her head, and her eyes seemed to turn darker green. It was some odd effect I'd noticed years earlier — it always happened when she was either analyzing something or ill. "Kankuro . . . consider for a moment the difference between Naruto-kun and Shikamaru."

I paused to stare at her. "One's stupid, and the other's a genius."

She laughed. "No, no. I mean, Shikamaru is an analyst, like me. In fact, as a strategist he's better than I am, even if I've had to rescue his sorry ass."

Her eyes twinkled when she mentioned his name, and I felt an evil grin coming on. "Uh-huh."

"Naruto-kun, on the other hand, seems to react to the world through his feelings. Yeah, it makes him brash, but he also has a profound effect on people." She shook her head. "Don't get me to pondering that, though. What I'm saying is . . . emotions are easy for Naruto-kun. He understands them easily; he views the world through them. He understands other people's emotional motivations readily, and he can predict things about people or fights if their decisions are emotion-based."

I resumed fixing her lunch, grabbing the pan of veggies and scraping them onto the compartment by the rice. I knew Temari's analysis was heading somewhere, if I could be patient enough to wait for her conclusion. "Yeah, and your point?"

"You're like Naruto-kun." She joined me again, picking up the wasabi sauce and squeezing some into a small cup in the box. "You intuit others' motivations and feelings and react accordingly. You know if someone cares for you, and you expect them to uphold that care consistently."

I considered her words and realized she was right. "Okay, yeah. But Gaara?"

"Gaara is like Shikamaru or me." She set down the wasabi and stared out the kitchen window. "Emotions aren't so intuitive to us. We deal with facts and analyses and stratagems better." She bit her lip momentarily. "Kankuro . . . it's not that our ototo doesn't see that you love him."

I flinched at the bald honesty contained in those words.

"It's that he's afraid it won't continue."

"What?" I wiped my hands on a towel and turned to face her. "Why wouldn't I keep loving him?"

Temari put her hands on my shoulders and squeezed them. "It's not an insult to you. Think about it. The only person who cared for Gaara when he was young was our Uncle Yashamaru, and he tried to kill him. Add to that the fact that Gaara was insane for six years, and as a result threatened and insulted us all the time. He's assuming the problem is with _him_."

"Oh . . ." It did make a kind of sense. A disturbing kind of sense.

She smiled sadly. "I believe he thinks he has to continually pay penance, continually earn our affection, and work the rest of his life to keep the familial bonds between us intact. He just doesn't understand emotions well enough to know that he can forge a bond with us, and it'll hold because we love him. He doesn't understand that he's been forgiven."

I stared into her eyes for several moments, knowing she was similar enough to Gaara in basic personality to gain some insight into him. "So how do I convince him that I'm not leaving? That I won't betray him, or that I've forgiven him, or that he doesn't have to pay penance in order for me to care?"

"Time." She squeezed my shoulders again and then let go. "You just have to do what you do best: stand by his side, listen to him, and care for him." She shrugged and smiled, turning back to her lunch. "Um, this looks good now." She put the lid on the box then glanced back at me. "Over time, the consistency of your actions will prove that you're not changing. He'll get the picture."

I frowned and nodded. I didn't want it to take time; I wanted him to be able to trust in me now. Was it really so hard for him to see? But if I really did possess an intuition that Gaara didn't have . . . "Okay. I get it, _jan_." I understood it, but it was kind of disheartening. Still, I had always been stubborn; I could outlast him and prove myself, right?

Temari smiled as she wrapped her bento box into a handkerchief. "Good. So take care of our ototo while I'm gone."

"Sure thing." I snatched up a piece of pickled eggplant and popped it in my mouth. "Don't get your ass whipped or something. You only pulled a B rank, after all."

She smirked at me, and I grinned in response.

"I won't." She snatched up her lunch and headed for the door. "Oh, and you're welcome for the advice," she called over her shoulder.

"And you're welcome for the lunch," I shot back. What a smartass.

Then again, that was one of the best things about my sister.

* * *

I stood in the open doorway and stared at the garden. After running errands and making some arrangements, I'd returned to Gaara's bedroom and found it empty. I'd searched the private quarters and even found Gaara's empty breakfast tray in the kitchen. But I'd only now discovered the boy himself sitting on a bench outside.

For several minutes I leaned on the lintel, resting my head against the wood. The morning sunlight seemed unnaturally bright, creating a glow in the garden. Magenta adeniums, or desert roses, lined the mosaic tile pathways. The flowers reminded me of the petunias, except the desert rose leaves were thicker and darker — succulents' leaves. Orange desert poppies spread beyond the adeniums, and desert sunflowers added their mustard-yellow blooms to the mix. Under the sun's glow, the garden looked almost ethereal. A light breeze stirred the flowers, causing their heads to bob, and the wind chime hanging from the eave tinkled.

Perhaps the scene's surrealness was what made me feel unreal. Momentarily, I felt suspended in time, as though I were a thought sparking in a grander being's mind. Gaara, his dark red hair shining like a flame in the light, wasn't real either. He certainly had never died, and I hadn't spent a torturous hour staring at his corpse. The pain I'd suffered hadn't actually happened.

The chime tinkled again, a random chord of metallic notes, and I blinked. The glow in the garden remained, but I saw and heard the honey bees as they buzzed from flower to flower. A troop of red ants marched near my feet, heading toward some unknown destination, and a wind gust splashed sand across the mosaic pathways. I stirred from my spot, sliding the door closed behind me, and stepped off the wooden deck. Even though I wore wooden geta sandals, my footsteps were quiet.

I knew Gaara both sensed and heard my approach, but he continued to stare at the ornamental fountain in the garden's center. His absent gaze, so glassy I imagined I could see the fountain reflected in his pupils, told me he was deep in thought — or, more precisely, analysis. Temari was right: Gaara was a rational thinker, an analyst, one who did his best to determine by logic what his purpose was, what his life meant, and even what his feelings were. But logic could only carry one so far in the realm of emotion. Gaara could analyze his reactions, even rationalize his fears, but the underlying cause of a feeling . . . a wound of the heart . . . could not be healed by logic.

_And I don't work by logic,_ I admitted to myself, knowing Temari was right about me as well. _I strategize in battle, but when it comes to my siblings . . ._

I sighed. I could only be who I was, even if my superiors said I lost my composure or acted rashly. I walked over to Gaara and sat by him. Propping one arm on the bench's back, I stared at the fountain as well, watching water trickle from the trumpet-shaped, desert rose blooms. Some 60 years earlier, an artist had sculpted the fountain as a gift to the Kazekage, but the fountain only functioned during years when we got decent rain.

I pondered my wandering thoughts and realized that in a metaphorical way, Gaara's soul lacked rain. "Gaara," I began, glancing toward him, "I want to ask you —"

"I thought you'd left me," he said quietly, as though sensing my questions.

I cringed, his words proving my hypothesis. Temari and I understood him after all.

"It only made sense," he continued, his gaze still on the fountain. "I spent years insulting you, even threatening your life. I told you outright I didn't consider you my brother. Yes, I chose a new path, but even now, I have nothing to offer you. Why . . ." He paused, his brow furrowing. "Why would you go out of your way to care for me, to l —" He stopped again and frowned. "I've thought about this all morning. I've gone through every thought I've had since I returned to life. And I know I have nothing to offer you. I don't know how to be your brother."

His words made me feel lost. I wasn't sure where to begin. He had never been properly loved; he didn't even understand what it was. But I'd promised him I'd protect him, and the only way he could learn was for me to show him. Surely he wasn't trying to push me away? He had called me "nii-san," and he'd let me hug him, even hold him while he slept.

Unless, of course, he regretted allowing himself to appear so vulnerable around me. Perhaps he was internally cursing himself for accepting my care, for showing he _needed_my care. If any trace of his old paranoia remained, he would pull away, repressing his facial expressions and body language to recreate his impassive persona. Without any words, without any direct action, he would shut me out again and make himself unreachable.

A sickly fear jolted through my stomach like a lance of ice, and I felt my heart plummet. _No . . ._ I thought to myself, nauseated. _I showed you the real me, the one beneath the mask. Don't turn me away. I lowered my defenses for you. If you shut me out now . . ._

Gaara turned and met my gaze. His eyes looked listless. "I've burdened you for the past two nights, and I have no way to repay you. It doesn't seem fair, and it has to be exhausting for you. If —"

"You are _not_ burdening me!" It came out as a yell, and a bird I hadn't even sensed suddenly flapped its wings and flew from the flowers, knocking off blooms in its hasty retreat. This was what always happened: I lowered my guard and dropped my act, and the target of my affection rejected me. My emotions weren't welcome in the shinobi world.

Gaara blinked at my vehemence, although his expression was otherwise as stoic as usual. "But—"

"'But' nothing!" How could I explain? Even after all these years, he still lived in such emotional darkness that he was going to reject me without even understanding what I was offering. "You're my ototo! I don't want anything more than that from you."

He shook his head, his brow knitting with confusion. "But I don't know how to be a brother. And I don't want to use you. I don't want to be the monster I once was."

"Of course you don't know! And you're not going to learn unless you let me teach you." I was getting angry — angrier by the second. Was my love so useless? Was I useless? "You're not using me. If I got seriously injured tomorrow, wouldn't you visit me at the hospital? You would do the same for me as I did for you last night — you just haven't had the opportunity yet."

Gaara looked away, blankly staring at his feet. "Would I?" he whispered.

In that moment, I saw the ghost of self-hatred that haunted him. "Yeah, you would. Don't sell yourself short. You're the one who busted his ass to become Kazekage and sacrificed himself saving the village."

Gaara frowned, and I knew he couldn't accept the rationale just then. "The village was endangered because of me in the first place."

He was missing the point, getting caught in a hamster wheel of bent logic. "That doesn't change the fact that you'd help me if I were sick or injured."

Gaara didn't reply; he simply crossed his arms over his chest.

I was getting frustrated. "This has something to do with last night, doesn't it? When you woke up the second time, you didn't just think I'd left. You thought I'd completely abandoned you."

He flinched. "Like I said, I have nothing to offer you in return."

I grabbed him by the shoulders and turned him to face me. "I don't need anything in return, dammit! You're my ototo. I've been trying to reach you for years." I both did and didn't understand. I saw his problem, but I knew he was wrong. "Just —" I paused, unsure how to explain. "Just stay!" My own words hit me so hard I released him and stood up, facing away as tears stung my eyes. All I'd ever _wanted _was to be useful to him, to care for him, and to have him accept that bond. I wanted my brother. It had never even occurred to me that he wouldn't return my love as he healed. I still didn't doubt it. Just as hatred would breed hatred, love would breed love. But Gaara couldn't know that . . .

A long silence followed, then Gaara, his voice quiet but pained, replied, "I'm hurting you again."

I growled in aggravation. I'd never tried so hard to communicate my true thoughts to anyone, and I seemed to be failing miserably. I clenched my fists and whirled to face him. "Of course you're hurting me. I love you, and you're basically telling me to go away!"

Gaara's eyes grew enormously wide. "Kankuro . . ."

I paused, shocked by my own admission, then slumped suddenly, feeling strange tremors in my arms and legs. I couldn't take back the words now, and I wasn't even sure I wanted to even if I could. "That was one thing I never thought you'd do." My voice sounded flat to me. "After getting so upset with the kids who ran away from you, I never once thought you'd try to run away from me." I glanced over my shoulder at the fountain and absently noted that the trickling water reminded me of tears. "Even it if were true that you know nothing about being a brother — and I'm not really convinced it's true — I thought you'd remember how much it hurt to be rejected."

I heard him gasp faintly, but I'd burnt up all my emotions. I felt nothing. The world seemed lifeless — to be washed out and grey. From the corner of my vision, I saw Gaara stand, his posture rigid and resolute, and clench his jaw with what appeared to be steely determination. Then he walked over to me and stiffly hugged me.

"Nii-san," he said, "I'm not going to reject you. I just thought — It just seemed . . ." Seeming exhausted, he thunked his forehead against my chest. "I just don't understand why you love me."

The strange tremors in my limbs subsided, and I gazed at the top of his head. "Does it matter?"

He raised his head and met my gaze. "Yes. Because if I don't know why, then . . ."

"Then you don't know how to keep my love?" I guessed, thinking back to Temari's explanation. It seemed bizarre to me that anyone could think that way.

Gaara's eyes widened again, but he nodded faintly.

"Love is a gift," I said, reaching up to touch his cheek. In his confusion, he seemed almost like a porcelain doll — easy to shatter. I knew it wasn't really true, but I couldn't shake the image. "You don't earn it, and you don't pay for it." I paused, wracking my brain for an explanation. "It's accompanied by other gifts that grow with time, like trust and respect, and your actions and words have to uphold those things." Could he understand that? I wasn't sure how else to define it. "But in the end, love is generated within one person and then freely given to another."

"But I did nothing in the past that would maintain trust or respect," he whispered, his voice strained. "I hurt you and threatened you and —"

I moved my hand, putting my fingers over his lips to silence him. "You aren't that child anymore." I sighed and dropped my hand. "Do you really need an answer for why I love you?"

He nodded slowly, his gaze reflecting the same sadness they'd contained when he was a six-year-old.

How to explain? There was no way. "Because you're mine."

Gaara blinked, and I hoped it made sense. I certainly didn't mean it in a creepy way. His blood, my blood . . . his hair, my hair . . . we were inherently a part of each other. Nothing past, present, or future could change that, even a past as rocky as ours had been. He was my ototo, period.

"'Because' —" he began, as though he meant to repeat my words, then he stopped and all the tension seemed to drain from him. His face smoothed, his frown vanished, and his shoulders relaxed. Without another word, he leaned his head against my chest and tightened his arms around my waist.

Logic could never fully explain emotion, I knew. Never. To do so would be to void the power of feelings.

I smiled and hugged him back, wrapping my arms around his thin body, and feeling once more that sense of protectiveness that pervaded all my thoughts of him.

"I'm not going anywhere," he finally said. "I won't run away, and I won't reject you."

"That's all I need to know," I replied, and I realized the garden seemed to glow again. Color had returned to the world, and with it, my peace of heart.

* * *

_A/N: Chapter 4 will be in Gaara's POV, of course. I'm about a third of the way finished with it. Thank you to everyone who reviewed and/or faved the two previous chapters. I appreciate your support!_


	4. Final Gaara POV

_A/N: Back to Gaara's POV!_

* * *

**Chapter Four: Do You Still Love Me?**

In the moonlight, I walked the hallways. Like hundreds of previous nights, I passed silently through the darkness, any sound my bare feet could have made hidden under the dull roar of Suna's winds. Foreigners often believed the desert was lifeless, especially at night, but as one awake continually, I knew it was a fallacy. The wind whistling in the eaves masked more than my footsteps; it cloaked the scuttling of beetles, the calling of hawks, and the growling of hyenas.

I knew these hallways well enough to transverse them in pitch blackness; my feet knew the feel of the cool wood. Each corner, each door, each window . . . I knew them all. I had stared at them, paced through them — crept, run, raced. Even as the family outcast, this mansion had become my home, too, so I'd spent my sleepless nights here. Now I was the lord of it. Godaime Kazekage. As long as I lived, my siblings and I had the right to dwell here, our occupancy unbroken between my father's death and my ascension.

Yes, I could have walked these hallways backwards in my sleep . . . and sleep was the problem. I hadn't recovered enough from my illness to work, and I'd passed out shortly after nightfall. But the chiming clock — a wooden monolith in my bedroom corner — marked midnight when I awakened from my first nightmare. Sleep was not my friend, especially right now. Especially since I'd hurt Kankuro that morning.

So it was to Kankuro whom I retreated — the first person in my life to tell me that he loved me. My uncle, Yashamaru, had once claimed my mother had loved me, only to retract the statement and say she'd cursed me. Kankuro, though . . .

I hesitated at his bedroom door. No matter what he said, I believed I was burdening him. Yet I had the sensation he'd be further hurt if I didn't seek his advice. Wanting to be a brother — a good brother — I ignored the contradictory nature of depriving him of sleep so he could feel useful. I raised my fist and tapped on the door. "Kankuro?"

Uncomfortable with my intrusion, I paused a moment further, but no reply came. Concerned, I reached out with my senses, but his chakra's soft buzz wasn't warming the room beyond. Where had he gone? At the supper table, it'd been obvious he'd been as exhausted as I was.

I heard a gasp to my left, followed by a noise I'd hoped not to hear again for many years: retching. Suspicious, I turned toward the bathroom, quickly closing the distance between the two doors. "Kankuro?" I called through the bathroom door. More retching sounds. This time I did feel his chakra; it was weak and distressed.

Without preamble, I threw open the door. Kankuro slapped the toilet handle and glanced over his shoulder at me. He was collapsed on the floor, one arm propped on the toilet rim, his face pale and sweaty.

I felt lanced with guilt. "I passed my illness to you." As if he hadn't suffered enough over me!

Kankuro snorted. "I'm not usually so susceptible. I've never caught anything from Temari no matter how sick she got. Since I was poisoned and nearly died, though . . ." He shrugged. "I guess my immune system is as shot as yours is."

My mind scrambled, trying to recall everything he'd done for me the night before. I grabbed a washcloth and wetted it, then knelt by him, wiping the sweat from his face.

Kankuro grinned weakly. "Heh. You'll find that I'm a terrible patient." He slumped against the wall. "And, really, it's not as bad as it seems."

I crawled after him as he moved and crouched by him again, wiping the sweat off his neck. "'Not as bad?' You were vomiting."

He leaned back his head and stared at the ceiling. "Fair enough. I actually hate to vomit. I'm a big wimp about it." He smirked. "No one likes it, I guess. It feels unnatural or something. But I really hate it. I'll go out of my way to try to avoid it."

"That's understandable." I frowned at him, worried. "I have some medicine left in my room. Could you make it to my bedroom? You could rest on my bed, and my toilet would be closer."

Kankuro's brow furrowed, drawing his eyebrows close together. "I — I think I can make it. I've already puked four times, so I doubt there's anything left in my stomach, anyway."

Shocked, I opened my mouth to speak, but the words died in my throat. How long had he been here suffering alone? "Okay," I said instead, standing and setting the washcloth on the sink. I turned back and offered him my hand.

He grasped it without complaint and let me pull him to his feet. I could feel a tremor in his arm, and I could tell his legs were weak as well. Not giving him the chance to decline, I pulled his arm over my shoulders with one hand and then wrapped my other arm around his waist. "Let's go," I told him.

Kankuro sighed softly, and it sounded like a mix of irritation and resignation. "Okay."

I helped him to my room, and he immediately took position by the toilet because, as he explained, "my stomach might decide to pull more stupid stunts, _jan_."

I left him hovering in the bathroom and walked to my desk, where I'd left my medicine. Several packets were in the box, and some water remained in the pitcher. I frowned at the glass as I fixed a dose for Kankuro. He had raised his mask again — his punk attitude and off-hand style of speech. He was hiding his suffering behind a show of strength. It wasn't so much a bluff, because he was genuinely strong, as an over-extension of the truth. I recognized this performance and wondered how much I was to blame for it. Two nights in a row, he'd tossed aside his mask, spoken to me in a kind voice I barely recognized. And this morning, I had . . .

Retching sounds interrupted my thoughts. I picked up the medicine cup and carried it into the bathroom, setting it on the sink. A weird form of déjà vu struck me, a perfect mirror image of role reversal. Suddenly I understood how he felt when he'd returned with medicine only to find me vomiting already. I jerked up a washcloth, wetted it, and knelt by him as he flushed the toilet.

He gave me a crooked smile. "I'm puking stuff I don't remember eating." His brow furrowed. "Plus stuff I should have digested days ago. I don't get it."

The mask. I sighed and ran the cool cloth over his forehead, feeling his body heat through the rag and leaving his bangs damp. His fever must have gotten high. "It is strange," I admitted, but even to myself, I sounded distracted. "Kankuro . . ." How did I tell him it was safe? I knew better than anyone the agony of watching everyone run away and abandon me; I had accidentally dealt him a severe blow that morning. In the process, I'd seen a side of him I doubted few others had seen — an openly passionate, caring streak. Now, though . . .

Kankuro was watching me with a raised eyebrow. "Hm?"

I shook my head and grabbed the cup from the sink. "Drink this. It's that really strong medicine you brought me last night."

"Thanks." Kankuro accepted the glass and downed its contents in one gulp.

I wondered how wise it was for him to drink it so fast, but after several moments he sighed deeply and his shoulders relaxed.

"Better," he murmured, handing the cup back to me. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes.

I returned the glass to the sink, but I found myself feeling deeply frustrated. I wanted to take care of Kankuro, to assist him the way he had me. I wanted him to drop the mask again, to understand I wasn't going to reject him, and yet I knew I wasn't an overly demonstrative person to begin with. With his mask in the way, I wondered if I could dare trying to show affection.

_"Because you're mine."_

The words shot through my mind. I glanced at Kankuro, knowing he counted me as his brother, as someone worthy of love, despite our past. He wasn't counting my previous aggression against me; he had stopped seeing me as a monster long ago. I wanted nothing more than to reach out to him, but past hugging him this morning in a fit of desperation, I had no idea how. To get beyond his mask again, though, perhaps my only choice was to explain myself.

"Can you make it to my bed?" I asked quietly.

Kankuro opened his eyes, which seemed a bit bleary. "Sure, man."

I held out my hand again, and he allowed me to pull him to his feet once more. I helped him to the bed, where he collapsed immediately. I pulled the covers up, tucking him in, then sat on the edge of the bed. "Kankuro?"

His eyes had started to drift closed, but he opened them and focused on me. "What's up?"

Although I felt wrong disturbing him, the issue wouldn't let me rest. "I . . . want to explain."

He cocked one eyebrow.

I glanced toward the circular window, through which faint moonlight poured. "I wasn't actually —" I paused, unsure how much I should reveal. "I didn't want to run away from you. I had the urge to, yes, but it had nothing to do with you. Or . . . that's not true. I didn't want to burden you. But I just didn't know how to respond."

"Respond?" He sounded confused.

"It's —" Where did I begin? With the nightmares? But the nightmares were based on real life experiences. "What did our father say when Yashamaru died?"

Kankuro frowned. "He just said you killed him. That's all. He never explained the circumstances, if that's what you mean."

I sighed. "I figured as much." That was me, the monster. "The truth is that Father sent Yashamaru to assassinate me. When I crushed him, I didn't even know who was attacking me." I paused, suddenly nauseated at the memory. Or perhaps my stomach still wasn't handling food well.

Kankuro stared at the ceiling. "Somehow I'm not surprised. It sounds like something Father would do." He grimaced. "Did he even give Uncle Yashamaru a choice?"

For a moment, the memory of that dark night eclipsed my mind: the smell of hot sand mixed with blood; the burn as I vomited and cried; the numbing horror as my small world shattered . . . then reformed itself in hatred and rage. "Yes, he had the choice." My voice sounded fainter than I'd intended.

Kankuro frowned and reached up, squeezing my forearm.

I jumped faintly, then realized my brother was trying to comfort me in the midst of his illness. Wasn't I supposed to be comforting him? I shook my head. "Yashamaru had told me that . . . that our mother loved me. That her love was in the sand that protected me." I paused. The memory hurt more than I thought it would. "After I pulled away the cloth covering his face and discovered it was him, he said he'd tried to love me, but he couldn't. He couldn't forgive me for killing the sister he loved so much." I stopped, trapped in the crushing pain of a ghost's hate.

Kankuro took my hand in his. "I'm sorry. I don't remember much about Uncle Yashamaru. Since he was your 'keeper,' I barely ever saw him. Father kept Temari and me away from both of you."

"I . . . know that now." I gathered my thoughts. "But as he died, Yashamaru also said our mother never loved me. She didn't want me, cursed me and the village, and named me 'Gaara' because she hoped I would avenge her."

Kankuro listened silently. Intensely. He always had, even the first time I'd confided in him. He didn't interrupt or turn away. Somehow, he'd always cared. It was a great mystery.

"The reason I'm telling you this story . . ." I paused, uncomfortable. " . . . is to explain what happened this morning." Unable to hold Kankuro's gaze, I turned to stare out the window, where a crescent moon hung offset with a bright star — perhaps a planet. "Every time I sleep, I have nightmares based on those memories." I couldn't look back to Kankuro, couldn't meet his eyes. "Sometimes, Yashamaru is replaced by you in some fashion or another."

Kankuro squeezed my hand again.

"When I woke up this morning, I thought over everything that happened between the day Yashamaru betrayed me and now. About the person I used to be. And about the fact I still understand so little." I stopped, unsure how to explain my fears or the pain that burned in my stomach when I imagined Kankuro betraying me or discarding me — someone who had little to offer on a personal level and was, perhaps, more a burden than anything.

"Gaara . . ."

Kankuro's voice was soft again, the punk veneer gone. The special voice had returned. I wondered if he really only used that voice with me, and for a painful moment, I was jealous with the need to be the only one. It was wrong of me, I knew, but it hit me so suddenly how very much I needed — wanted — his love.

"Gaara, I may not remember Uncle Yashamaru well, but the mere fact he tried to kill his six-year-old nephew for something that wasn't your fault . . ." He shook his head. "Or Mom, who I don't remember at all . . ." He sighed. "It has nothing to do with you. If that's true about Mom, then she died raging in anger. She never had the chance to feel anything more. And apparently Uncle Yashamaru couldn't see you as yourself because he let his grief eat him alive."

I frowned, hurt by the memory.

"But their failings are their own, not yours and not mine." Kankuro lifted his other hand and clasped my hand between both of his. "I am not them. What I wanted was an ototo. What I wanted to see all this time . . . is you."

Although I started to reply, no words came forth. No reply could be made. The circle of his love . . .

"I have no one to avenge," Kankuro continued. "Not my sister and not myself. You chose to become someone new, to reclaim your life and walk a different path. The person I'm looking at is you, and I'm proud of you."

My face felt warm. "Kankuro . . ." The circle of his love began and ended with me. "Why? How?" How had I earned his love? "Isn't there a saying, 'you reap what you sow'? What have I sown in you to deserve this?"

"About three years of hard work to overcome yourself." Kankuro smiled — a crooked one. "But that's not the point. The point is what I am sowing in you. You said earlier you didn't know how to be a brother, but if I show you how, won't I reap what I sow?"

Turning my stare to my lap, I realized he had, indeed, beaten me at my own logical analysis. He was right. As clueless as I was, I had immediately begun taking care of him when I found him vomiting, just like he'd taken care of me. I hadn't even thought about it — I'd just done it automatically based on his example.

Kankuro tugged me down onto the bed. "Sleep, _ototo_. We're both still sick, and we both need rest. I'll still be here in the morning — in every sense."

Feeling my face flush further, I settled onto the mattress and wrapped my arm around him this time, holding him close. I realized why he never showed this face to anyone — apparently, except, his siblings when they were ill or badly injured. He was precious. To feel this much care for others, he had no choice but to hide his true self behind a mask, a tough performance, or people would try to take advantage of him. More to the point, anything perceived as "softness" or "weakness" by Suna shinobi would get one killed.

Since I was still new to physical touch, I readjusted my position several times before willing myself to relax. At least Kankuro seemed to understand my explanation, and more importantly, he didn't seem put off by it. He had a gift I didn't have — yet. He understood things I didn't, but as a result, he possessed a mercy I didn't understand.

Pondering that mystery and the blessing it contained, I drifted to sleep.

* * *

I awakened abruptly, jolted from sleep as though I'd been stabbed. My body remained frozen, my heartbeat racing for several long moments until I realized I wasn't actually in danger. Then I exhaled, willing myself to relax.

A nightmare. Again.

Shadows bunched and bulged in the ceiling corners, unaffected by the pale moonlight filtering through my window. I frowned. Something was wrong. What —

I bolted upright. Kankuro was gone.

"Don't assume," I whispered to myself. I felt the sheets beside me. Cold. "Don't assume." I glanced around the room but saw nothing.

No, I couldn't bow to this fear. I had to trust my brother. He had been at my side for years, and his behavior over the last few days had been extraordinary. At some point, I had to push beyond old wounds and build myself a future. So where had Kankuro gone this time? There had to be a rational explanation.

Retching sounds floated out of the bathroom.

"Of course," I muttered, feeling silly. I climbed from the bed and made another cup of medicine, which I carried into the bathroom.

Kankuro flushed the toilet as I entered the room and then gave me a wan smile. "Just when I thought I was done, _jan_." He sighed. "Where is my stomach even getting this stuff?"

I knelt by him and gave him the cup. "You could have vomited up the medicine you took earlier."

He stared at the cup. "Right." He sipped slowly this time.

Standing, I grabbed the washcloth and wetted it again. _See?_ I told myself. _He didn't leave you. He's not lying to you._ I glanced at him as he leaned against the bathroom wall and sipped more medicine. No, he wasn't lying. But he'd already erected his mask again. I'd explained myself, but he still defaulted to his punk persona. "How long have you been in here?" I asked, kneeling by him again and wiping his forehead. "The bed was cold."

He nodded faintly. "Awhile. I'm not sure. Feels like forever."

"I didn't even feel you move," I said quietly. "That's rather disturbing. You moved me while I was asleep, and I didn't even register it."

Kankuro's brow furrowed. "Yeah, well, last night you slept that soundly, too. It may be just the way you sleep when you're ill. Then again, it could be the way you sleep, period. We don't know yet." He frowned. "If so, we'll have to assign a guard to your bedroom door at night. Since Temari and I were both trained to sleep lightly, we wake up easily at any sound. But you . . ."

"Yes. It presents a problem." I took the empty glass from him and set it, along with the washcloth, on the sink.

"So what did wake you up? The sound of me puking my guts out again?"

I glanced at him, then hesitated. "No." Might as well be honest. "I had another nightmare."

Kankuro's frown deepened. "About Yashamaru?"

"In a way." I stared upward at the small, circular window that allowed moonlight to cast the room into a soft glow. "It was . . . more like the nightmare I had the first night." Could I tell him? If I couldn't, why should I expect him to drop his mask for me? "You and Temari couldn't figure out why I was alive and wished I'd leave or let myself be buried."

He snorted, then patted the floor beside him. "Temari's like me. She sees you for you. In fact, I think she understands you better than I do. Always has." He sighed. "When we were kids, she'd clamp her hand over my mouth because she'd figure out you were on the homicidal path before I did. Now she says that in essence you're both rational thinkers who don't grasp the nuances of emotion well."

Sitting by him, I watched his face as he talked. A certain sorrow glazed his eyes. "I suppose she's right," I replied. "Emotions don't always make sense to me. I don't intuit them well." I thought back to the day I'd died and the way Temari had leaned over me, looking so concerned after I'd awakened. She'd checked on me multiple times the rest of the day until she seemed satisfied that I really was fine. Kankuro was right. She cared for me equally.

Kankuro laughed weakly. "Well, that's our sister, _jan_. Analytical, strategic, and willing to kick the ass of anyone who crosses her." A small, sad smile bent his lips. "But for someone who claims not to have ready empathy, she sure is insightful."

_Ready empathy._ I reached up, touched my fingers to Kankuro's cheek. That was his strength — emotion and empathy. He _did_ understand them. He probably grasped and understood my emotions better than I did. Although he was one of the most brutal, merciless shinobi I knew, when it came to his village, his family . . . under all the layers of punk attitude, he cared. He cared, I realized, so much it _hurt_. And it was the power of his care I wanted.

He glanced at me when I touched him. "Hm?"

I ran my fingertips over his face, tracing his cheek, his nose, his chin — the places he drew his paint. "No mask," I whispered.

Kankuro raised an eyebrow. "What?"

I didn't know any other way to tell him except to be blunt. "The mask. You don't need it with me." My throat constricted with my need to explain, for him to see. "I may not understand emotion well, but when I look at you, I don't want to watch your performance. _I_ want to see _you _for you."

His gaze locked with mine — a shocked stare. "G-Gaara?" He captured my hand, although he didn't bother to lower it from his face. "I'm not pretending to be anyone but myself when I'm around you."

"That's not what I mean," I whispered, desperate for him to understand. "The punk attitude you always have — you don't need it around me." Emotions were hard to grasp and harder to voice. "If you love me because I'm yours, then you must accept that I will love you because you're mine. If you are my keeper, then I am yours, too. The person you are . . ." Wanting to underscore my point, I pulled my hand from his and touched his chest over his heart. "I admire."

Scared to see his reaction to my admission, I stared at my hand. I couldn't explain it any better than that. His strength came from a place I didn't understand, but it had been behind me, protecting me, for years. Even before I cared, he had been the one to carry me if I were chakra-exhausted. The barrier of fear that had once separated us was gone, but even when it had existed, he had shown concern. The weight of that fear had not broken the bond he had with me — or rather the bond he wanted.

Long moments of painful silence hung between us, then Kankuro wrapped his arm around me. This time, I took the initiative, and mirroring all he'd done for me, hugged him tightly. It didn't feel as odd as I feared it would, and I realized that with the truth of his feelings laid bare for me, I was adjusting quickly to physical affection. The stiffness I'd experienced earlier that day had faded away.

At first, he said nothing, simply rubbing one hand up and down my back until I felt warm and drowsy. "Don't bother to have nightmares about me abandoning you," he finally whispered. "It was never gonna happen before, but it definitely won't now."

"You're mine?" I mumbled, my hazy brain still nagging me for clarification.

A pause. "Of course. It goes both ways."

I could tell he was still struggling against his mask, but it didn't bother me. He knew he was safe with me now. We leaned into each other, and I closed my eyes, listening to his heartbeat — a slow, steady rhythm. "Good." I knew I was going to fall asleep again, but this time I didn't care. I felt safe, almost as though my brother's strength could pervade my dreams and hold the nightmares at bay. I hoped he felt the same.

_It's strange_, I thought as I drifted to sleep, _that dying can actually turn out to be a good thing._

* * *

_A/N: Thank you to everyone who has supported this story with reviews, favs, and/or alerts. I would have never made it 4 chapters without that, especially since this was supposed to be a one-shot._

_Thank you to Darkhelmetj for beta-reading._

_I think this story has drawn to a close now, so I'll consider it complete. If I did decide to add on to it, it would probably be in the form of a sequel. But let's just wait and see what happens to my muse over Christmas Break._

_"Dances with Shinobi" chapter 3 will be posted next._


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